Lester was alone tonight, so he had a few more freedoms than he would in company. He cooked a simple meal, a childhood pleasure -- scrambled eggs with cheese on toasted bagels. He let the vinyl version of the Stone's Let It Bleed reverberate loud around his apartment. He was going about in sweats and a frayed t shirt.
He hadn't drunk anything for 3 months; he'd felt the need to....shall we say, get a grip of himself. Now he allowed himself a bottle of smooth red.
He wandered around the space, padding across the carpet in bare feet. Paintings by friends were straightened at last, newspapers put into the recycling.
Last, he did something he would never let anyone else see. He went up to the mantelpiece, and picked up an award trophy. Holding it with both hands, he stared into it. Then he dusted it clean on his sleeve. He repeated this exercise with the other 2 statuettes, and placed them back in position.
His phone pinged with a text alert. He ignored it, and went to his wine glass. He took it to the kitchen and poured in the last of the bottle. After a while he walked to the phone, and flicked to Messages. 'Lawyer' was the last entry. Lester's thumb jabbed the screen, and up came 'Your divorce is legally final at 10 am tomorrow. You're free bud.'
He went up to the windows overlooking the river, and stood watching out for a long time. Lights, and life, slowly flowed in front of him. He finished the wine, and sighed. He murmured to the waterfront below, 'Well world, that's the last time I'm gonna get fucked over.' He took himself up to bed -- he had a big job in the city tomorrow morning.
He walked up from the station into the bustle. At a street wagon he bought a coffee, and rang the buzzer of the tall building. Going up in the elevator he brushed some curls back from his face, and the door slid back to reveal the sleek brick and wood workspace. The model-type behind the front desk recognised Lester, and cheerily waved him down towards the studios.
He greeted old friends and newer associates on today's project. He was 4 minutes early. He settled into a deep swivel chair in front of the mixing desk next to the sound engineer, and waited.
Time edged on, they made small talk. People came in and checked that everyone had drinks. 10 minutes went by. Then 20. With the sighs of agitation from the 6 people in the room growing, 40 minutes came round. Somebody was paying for all this. Still, the all-important client hadn't arrived. Lester had already asked the engineer to call the studio they'd be linking up with to explain the situation.
Lester's phone pinged. With nothing better to do, he checked it. The Lawyer again...'Congratulations.'
So....that was that. 11 years of his life, signed off on the dotted line. After a moment, he turned it off.
As he was returning the phone to his jacket, the studio door burst open. Lester wasn't looking behind him, but he certainly heard the fired-up angry female voice bawling out 'Where's the damn copywriter?!'
The studio hushed. Lester slowly revolved his chair towards the noise. 'Well, I'm the......damn copywriter. Good morning....who are you may I ask?'
She strode up to Lester's chair. 'Exactly you asshole....why haven't you answered any of my calls?'
Taken aback, he hesitated before replying, 'I haven't had any calls.'
'Oh really' she trilled sarcastically. She flipped out her phone, looking at it with a confident leer. 'What's your number?'
'716, 812, 7790.'
She stared at her screen. Her face lost some of it's rigor. She turned from him, and punched keys on the phone. A few seconds later, her sharp tones filled the studio again.
'Hey Louise, you fucked up on the copywriter's number. It's 7790, not 7791. I've been calling for days, no wonder he's sat here not knowing what the hell is going on. Clear out your stuff sister, you screwed up bad. Goodbye.'
She turned to stare at him again. He could hear her breathing through her nose. He took stock of her - power suit, model hair, dominatrix shoes.
He had to break the icy air. 'I'm sorry, but are you involved with the Mercedes commercial we're recording?'
'Involved?' she boomed. 'This is why I was calling you. I'm the new head of marketing in this territory, and we have to change the fricking script!'
Lester let a couple of beats go. 'What happened to Steffan?'
She snorted. 'By now you can probably read it in the financial pages. A few, er, personal problems came to light 2 days ago, and he had to vanish. I'm April Jones, I'm in charge now. So, this goddam script?'
Lester looked up at her calmly, even though she was pretty much in his face by now. He felt sad about Steffan; that was one clever guy, plus a joy to work with. And had this nightmare in front of him just fired someone over the phone?
'Well April, the 'frickin script' has been approved right up to board level, we've all been working towards this for months. In fact, we're late for our link to London. The actor is waiting for us to dial in.'
'Oh yeah, the
Brit
. That's another thing I'm not down with. Listen, the people we're trying to talk to...'
Calmly Lester cut her off. 'This is the 3
rd
in a series of commercials that's designed to run until late next year. We're half way through telling a story, and Michael Lamb is the voice of the campaign. We can't stop this now.'
She shooed someone out of a chair, rolled it to him, and sat. She turned back to the person she'd just evicted and announced, 'You. Get me an iced water. Just water and ice, no fricking fruit, ok?'
Spinning back to face Lester, at last she talked a little quieter. 'Story? See that's my problem. We're selling cars guy, duh? People don't need fairy tales....tell em to get down to the showroom and sign. We're
selling
cars. And remember, it's me that's signing the cheques now.' She crooked her head and flashed her best sarcastic smile.
Staring into her eyes, Lester ran through the possibilities of who she had to be fucking at HQ to have got this job. And he couldn't help but dwell on that 'duh?'
His voice lowered. 'April, do you realise that guy you just ordered to get you a drink is my Deputy Head of Design. Oxford graduate, talented kid.'
'Today you all work for me; he better get used to it.'
Dark thoughts clouded across Lester's mind. He tried one last thing. 'You do know a lot of these cars retail for like, a hundred thousand dollars yeah?'
She let out a bored sigh. '5,000...a 100,000? It's the same deal. Trust me, in business you just take no prisoners honey.' He calculated that she was at least 10, maybe 12 years younger than him.
Lester looked down at the floor, gathering his mind. Glancing up, he half whispered 'April, I need to talk to you outside.' He raised himself to full height, and paced to the door. He didn't wait for her, just walked out into the corridor.
A while later, she appeared. Her heels tic-tacked across the oak floor. 'Lester, right? I do hope we're not gonna get off on the wrong foot here?' She crossed her arms and stood against the wall opposite, her eyes challenging him.
He looked down at her, studying the contours of her face. She was pretty, but probably kept a small army of helpers busy making sure she looked flawless.
'How about we cut a deal April?' He stepped forward, and placed both hands against the wall behind her. Leaning in closer, he stared down over her. A flicker of surprise shot across her face.
'Let me make this commercial my way, just as it was agreed -- and tonight we'll have a meeting about how we should go forward. Blank page. You and me, you call the shots.'
Her eyes narrowed a touch. 'What about the team?'
'Nope. Just you and me. You obviously have strong feelings, and I've been writing these ads for a long, long while. I'm sure we can come to an understanding. Like you say, it's business.'
April fought to not betray the discomfort she felt. He'd physically dominated her with this caveman routine, and that was a cheap trick. She'd wanted to kick his shin. But she was wise to the dirty tricks people used to get ahead, so she lifted her chin slightly and calmly offered, 'Ok, my office, 7pm?'
'No. Scruffy Murphys, edge of Hell's Kitchen. 9.'
He turned to walk back into the studio. 'Wait! Is that a
bar
?'
Lester stopped, but didn't turn to her. 'Yeah, great bar. Look, unless you fire my agency, I'm gonna write your ads. So if you want to change them, meet me at Scruffy's. He opened the studio door and left her.
Back in the leather swivel chair at the front, he turned to the sound guy and said 'Ok, let's dial up London -- I have some apologising to do.'
April snuck in and sat at the back. Her mind was racing. She didn't listen to the proceedings, just stared at the back of Lester's chair.
A few seconds later, the lights flicked up on the connection box, and Lester knew he was talking live to an actor across the Atlantic. 'Michael, so sorry we're late man, you know how it is -- we had to save the free world here again.'
A deep rich chortle came through the studio speakers from thousands of miles away. 'Oh you poor fucking colonials. Now then loves - lets sell some expensive German stuff, let's make art, and let's get paid.'
The commercial got made, exactly as Lester had heard it in his head. After the collective high 5s, with people drifting out, he smiled at April. Frostily, she met his eyes. Heading past her to the door, he came close. '9, see you then.' At that he was gone.
April was not known for her kindness towards her fellow colleagues....and the rest of that day she was truly a bad-tempered witch. She surpassed herself. At long last the clock ticked by to a point where they could leave, and shake her out of their hair. By 5.33, she was alone.
The meeting was approaching. 'That arrogant pig,' she mused to herself; 'That fucker's on borrowed time.'
She knew that a destruction job came best from a subtle beginning. There was less screaming and shouting at the end that way. Yes, she would fire his agency tonight; but now she headed home to shower, pick out the right outfit, and make herself look devastating. It was all part of the job.
The cab dropped her at the far end of the theatre district. The air was alive; couples chattering arm in arm, the pull of neon, the noise. It was pitch dark night, but that's when this place woke up.
Scruffy Murphys didn't look as bad as it's name suggested. She pushed through the door, and a wall of sound washed over her. Scruffy's had a jukebox, and it only contained rock tunes. She sauntered past the pool tables, taking the place in....it looked roughly 50/50 men and women; at least it wasn't some skanky guy-hole. Not spying Lester, she went up to the bar. A tattooed and quiffed guy appeared in front of her, smiling. 'Yes ma'am, what can I get you?'
'Just a diet Sprite please.'
From behind, a voice cut in. 'That's bullshit. A Heineken for the lady Leon, with an apple vodka shot please my man, times 2.' Lester settled onto the stool next to where April stood. 'Sorry, had to take a leak. You're a little late April, but I expected that.'
